‘Likely it doesn’t matter to her now, but is Kramer wrong about that? From what he said to me, he doesn’t think he has any threats, other than one that I took to be Radley and he’s not worried about him.’
‘Nor should he be,’ Hamblin said, ‘but possibly he isn’t as popular within the parliamentary party as he thinks he is, and those are the people who decide on two candidates for a leadership election among the general membership. Radley has a minority support that will not grow but will stay loyal. But if Leslie Ellis was persuaded to run, and those with doubts about Kramer swung behind him, the Home Secretary might not get on to the final ballot paper that goes to the membership at large.’
I wasn’t aware that I was smiling, but I must have been for he said, ‘That prospect would please you, I see.’
‘Could I give a toss?’ I retorted, but he was right. I had met the stricken Emily Repton when she had held Kramer’s office, spent the same amount of time with each of them; I found myself wondering which I’d disliked more and decided it was a draw.
‘What about the man Bryant?’ I asked. ‘His name hasn’t been mentioned until now.’
‘That was remiss of both Mr Kramer and Mrs Dennis,’ Hamblin remarked.
‘Is he within the circle of knowledge on Spitfire?’
‘In theory no, but I can’t be certain of that. In fact my suspicion is that the Prime Minister will have shared at least some of the secret with him. I worry, Mr Skinner, about him being kept out of the loop on what’s happened to her. He came to see me, just before you arrived, wondering what the hell was up, to use his words. I could tell that he was sceptical about the tropical disease story.’
‘What’s his role, other than official spokesman?’ I asked.
‘He doesn’t have one; he isn’t part of the communications department, but he is the de facto information minister. Ms Repton brought him into the Home Office, took him to the DWP, and brought him here. His background was broadcasting, as an independent documentary maker, before he went into public relations, where he founded a successful consultancy. He’s more of a political animal than most of the Cabinet.’ He paused, bringing his hands together in a steepling gesture. ‘He’s also Emily’s half-brother.’
‘Bloody hell!’ I exclaimed. ‘He’s family? And we’re feeding him the cover story about his sister having fucking swamp fever? What will he do when he finds out the truth?’
‘He will either accept Kramer’s national interest view, or he will blow the lid off everything. You see? That’s why I worry.’
Eleven
In the time I’d spent in London, I had never been in the Houses of Parliament before that morning. My daughter Lauren had; she’d lobbied our MP as part of a youth group pushing for the vote for sixteen year olds. My son Spencer had, with a group from his school. My wife Louise had, years before, giving evidence to a select committee investigating tax breaks for the film industry. But not me; I work less than a mile from the place, and I’ve walked past it nearly every working day since I moved to the Met, exiting Westminster Underground station. On just about every one of those days I’ve glanced across at the place and said to myself, ‘I must go in there.’
I’d probably still be saying it if I hadn’t had that summons from Bob Skinner, via my big boss, and been dispatched on the instant to the scene of the biggest drama I have ever encountered in my twenty-odd-year police career.
When I pitched up there I had no idea what I was walking into, but it was made very clear to me very quickly that if I wasn’t in over my head, I was certainly up to my neck.
A world-shaking announcement about a new delivery system for the nuclear deterrent, put on hold by what appeared to be the murder of the Prime Minister . . . only for it to turn into an attempted murder, to everyone’s surprise.
A home secretary who had taken command and overridden normal police procedures, not to mention the law, by throwing a cloak over the truth and placing the initial investigation in the hands of the Security Service.
Add to that the coincidental presence of my old Edinburgh mentor, who was obviously loving every bloody minute of it, and no, Commander McIlhenney, it was not your average day at the office.
That’s what I was thinking as I retraced my steps from the Cabinet Office, back to the House. I wasn’t entirely certain where I was going, but a helpful PC, one of a pair of armed officers manning the gateway closest to Big Ben, pointed me in the right direction, past the entrance to Westminster Hall and on a few yards, to a spot where a taxi was disgorging passengers.
The drop-off point was manned by two more uniforms, guys significantly older than the twenty-something on the gate: a dark-skinned constable, and a pasty-faced sergeant who clearly hadn’t run anywhere in a couple of years. He was chatting to the taxi driver, laughing at something he had said, unaware of a woman who had exited from a cab behind and who would have walked straight into the building had his colleague not stepped in to check her credentials.
As I moved towards him, he glanced at me and called out, ‘With you in a second, mate.’ He handed the driver what appeared to be a twenty-pound note.
I shook my head and replied, ‘With me now, Sergeant,’ with an edge to my voice that isn’t normally there.
He frowned. ‘Have a little patience, mate,’ he barked, irritably. ‘I’m busy here.’
My warrant card hangs on a lanyard inside my jacket. I produced it, held it up and beckoned him to me. ‘That would be Commander, mate,’ I said.
He gulped visibly, muttered, ‘See you, Art,’ to the driver, and came towards me.
‘Commander McIlhenney, to be accurate,’ I told him, ‘Sergeant . . . ?’
‘Fowler, sir. Sorry, didn’t realise. It won’t ’appen again.’
‘I know, so let’s not dwell on it. Except . . . what was the twenty quid about?’
‘He’s putting a bet on for me. Three twenty at Ludlow, a sure thing.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘He did.’
I suppressed a smile. ‘Good luck with that, then. Have you and Constable . . .’ I looked at his colleague.
‘James Rasani-Hastings, Commander,’ he obliged. ‘Jimmy, usually.’ The PC’s uniform was noticeably neater than that of his colleague, and his equipment belt was strapped tightly in place, unlike the sergeant’s, which sagged on the slope of his belly. I glanced down; his heavy shoes were cleaner too.
‘Thanks. Have you been on duty here all morning?’
Both uniforms nodded. ‘Since nine, sir,’ Fowler volunteered.
I half turned and nodded towards a large brown painted door. ‘Does that lead up to the PM’s office?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Rasani-Hastings replied.
‘Terrible what’s ’appened, sir,’ Fowler sighed. ‘We was here when they took her away in the ambulance. All wrapped up she was; white as a sheet from what I could see of her. How’s she doing? I asked Rob and Barry, her protection officers, but they were saying nuffin’. Have you heard, sir?’
‘No, I haven’t. There’ll be a hospital bulletin this evening, I understand.’
‘It must have come over her quickly,’ Constable Jimmy observed. ‘She was fine when she arrived this morning.’ There was a look in his eye that made me think he was a man not given to taking too much at face value, unlike his colleague.
The promotion system isn’t infallible in any police service, and the Met is so big that it gets it wrong more often than anywhere else. Looking at the pair I suspected they were two examples of its failure.
‘She used this entrance when she arrived?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ Jimmy confirmed. ‘The car dropped her off at nine forty-five.’
‘Alone?’
‘No, Mr Bryant was with her.’
Not a name that I’d heard. ‘Who’s he?’
> ‘Grover Bryant, sir. He’s the PMOS: the Prime Minister’s official spokesman,’ the constable replied. He smiled. ‘We’re big on acronyms here.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘He didn’t, not through this doorway anyway. But that doesn’t mean he’s still in there. He could have gone out through St Stephen’s Entrance, or through the gate that leads into the tube station.’
‘That’s right,’ Sergeant Fowler confirmed. ‘This door here’s used more often as an entrance than a way out.’
‘Who’ve gone through it today?’ I asked him.
‘Only those as is allowed. The PM and Mr Bryant, like we said. The Chancellor was in early, before we arrived, ’cos he left at ten past nine. Mr Kramer came in just as he was leaving, then he went off in ’is car, just as the PM and Mr Bryant arrived.’
‘He came back in again, of course,’ Rasani-Hastings reminded him.
‘Can you recall the exact time?’
‘Ten fifty-nine, sir, exactly. I checked my watch and entered it in my notebook. He was gone for an hour and a quarter, give or take a minute.’
‘Is there any other log of the use of the entrance?’
‘No, just my book.’
‘Is that a standing instruction?’
Constable Jimmy smiled at me. ‘No, sir, it’s a standing precaution.’
‘In case someone like me comes along asking questions?’
‘Spot on, Commander,’ Fowler declared ‘Our inspector’s a fu . . .’ He stopped in mid-imprecation, realising that anything he said could be noted down and used against him.
‘Sir,’ Rasani-Hastings ventured, ‘can I ask? Where do you fit in? Are you PaDP? We’re a uniformed body, I’ve never heard of us having a plainclothes commander on the strength. And if you’re not, can you tell us what’s going on, and what are the questions about?’
I looked him dead in the eye. ‘Do you like it here?’ I asked him, directly.
His gaze dropped. He shifted his weight from one foot to another. ‘Sorry, sir. Not my place; I get it.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ve got no problem with your curiosity. That was a straight question. You don’t need to answer it in front of your sergeant,’ I took a card from a pocket and tucked it into his equipment belt, ‘but if you ever fancy being something other than a glorified doorman, get in touch with me and we’ll bring you in for assessment. No promises, though.’
He took the card and peered at it, eyes widening.
‘Okay,’ I said briskly, looking at Fowler, ‘that’s the lot, is it? Nobody else has used this entrance this morning, coming or going?’
He didn’t reply, but I sensed a reaction from the constable. I frowned at the sergeant. ‘What?’ I snapped.
‘Well, sir,’ he murmured, ‘there was one other. It was a bit unusual like and Jimmy here, give him his due, was a bit reluctant, since he ain’t on the list, but he said he had an appointment with the Prime Minister, and well, sir, I wasn’t about to tell him he couldn’t get in, him being who he is, so I let him in. Then we let him out again, about twenty-five minutes later. Struck me ’e was in a bit of a state when ’e left.’
I held out a hand. ‘Notebook, Jimmy.’
He handed it over, open at the last page used. I looked at the final entry, which recorded the departure of the Prime Minister in her ambulance, then scrolled up, past the note of Kramer’s return. ‘MB: exit ten fifty-two,’ the entry before it read.
I had to flip the page to see the one before it. ‘MB: entry ten twenty-eight.’
I looked at Rasani-Hastings. ‘MB? Please tell me it isn’t the MB I’m thinking of.’
He looked me in the eye. I had a strange feeling that each of us was trying to read the other’s mind.
‘No, you’ll have got it right, Commander. You’re not going to tell me he’s one of your people, are you?’
Twelve
I had hoped to keep clear of Grover Bryant for as long as I could, but that wasn’t to be.
The Cabinet Secretary and I finished his recorded interview, and parted company on decent terms, a big improvement on our first encounter. He returned to his own office, leaving me to prepare a list of priorities.
Based on what I had learned, and subject to any feedback from Neil following his visit to the House of Commons, I installed Siuriña Kramer as my top target. I had just noted the name of Montgomery Radley as number two, when my phone’s embarrassing ringtone, ‘Margaritaville’, sounded.
Making my twentieth mental note to change it for something more dignified, I took the call. The number was withheld, but I guessed the caller correctly.
‘Bob, it’s Amanda. I have information for you on the Prime Minister’s telephone activity this morning. There is nothing on her landline, either in her Commons office or in Downing Street, that strikes me as suspicious, although three of them do stand out. At eleven last night, six o’clock Washington time, she called the President of the United States on her secure line. It wasn’t recorded, but my assumption would be that she briefed her on the Spitfire announcement. They were on the line for thirty-two minutes. Next she spent fifteen minutes speaking to the President of Russia and after that a further twenty in conversation with the President of China.’
‘So add three more to the circle of knowledge,’ I said. ‘I don’t imagine that any of them was too pleased. Has there been increased chatter through their three embassies this morning?’
‘Bob,’ she chuckled, ‘we don’t spy on other nations’ embassies.’
‘Not bloody much we don’t!’
‘Well, maybe on certain issues and at certain times we keep an eye on them. The answer is no, there hasn’t. The Americans will want us to share the technology with them, of course.’
‘Will we?’
‘That would cause great difficulties with the Russians,’ she said.
‘Those would be the same Russians that claim to be developing a space plane that will be capable of doing much the same as Spitfire?’
‘Yes. It will be bad enough that we have the capability before them, that’s assuming their version ever works, which I doubt, but if we gave it to the Americans . . .’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Their reaction would be unpredictable.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So,’ I continued. ‘We think she told the three presidents. Anyone else?’
‘Not that her phone record shows, landline or mobile. However, the latter does reveal something of interest. Very few of the calls recorded are incoming, for an obvious reason: very few people have the number. But she did have one, at nine fifty-four this morning. Thing is, we can’t trace the caller. It came from a one-off, over-the-counter SIM card. It took my people five minutes to trace it, but all they learned is that it was bought for cash from a shop in Clapham and only ever used once, for that call.’
‘Can you trace the source?’ I asked. ‘Do you know where the mystery caller was when he phoned her?’
‘GCHQ can’t even trace the SIM. They tried to ping it, but got no response. It’ll have been destroyed: use it then lose it, standard practice.’
‘Standard practice among the sort of people that you and I have spent our careers chasing,’ I pointed out, ‘but not among the people who should have the Prime Minister’s mobile number. Nine fifty-four, you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she make any calls on her mobile?’
‘Three. She rang Nick Wheeler at sixteen minutes past ten; no reply. She tried him again ten minutes later, and once more at nine minutes to eleven, but she didn’t get through.’
‘That’s important,’ I exclaimed. ‘Hamblin says Satchell called him at one minute to eleven. She must have been attacked within that eight-minute window.’
‘Yes,’ Amanda agreed, ‘that’s progress.’
/>
‘Do you know where Wheeler was at the time?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘but it’s not really important.’
‘Maybe not, but if she left a voicemail,’ I pointed out, ‘it might be useful to know what it said.’
‘She couldn’t have. She wasn’t on the line for long enough on any of the attempts. What’s your thinking?’
‘I don’t have any, Amanda,’ I confessed. ‘I know, you’re wondering whether the mystery caller led her to phone Wheeler, but that’s far from being an automatic assumption. Let’s go back to that SIM card. If you’ve identified the shop where it was sold, I’m assuming that your people have spoken to the staff. Did they get any sort of a description of the buyer?’
‘No such luck. It was one of ten cards sold in a batch, four months ago. The assistant who served the customer no longer works there. The manager remembers the transaction, because he was asked if it was okay, but he was in his office at the time and didn’t see the buyer.’
‘As we say in Scotland . . . bugger!’
‘And here. Another piece of bad news. You won’t be getting that Red Box. The Prime Minister’s Civil Service private secretary won’t release it without her authority. Nobody can overrule that; not even Kramer. It may be academic, though: I was assured there was nothing in it but correspondence, official and personal.’
‘Okay, annoying but not vital,’ I agreed. ‘Anything else?’
‘Apart from the phone records,’ she continued, ‘the lab has reported back on the letter-opener. There’s a section of a palm print on it, and several partial fingerprints. They’re clear and we assume they’re Emily Repton’s but we can’t check.’
‘If she comes round, it may not be necessary,’ I pointed out. ‘If she doesn’t . . .’
I was in mid-sentence when the door of my temporary office was opened, wide, and a man strode into the room; a very large man, six feet four perhaps, and heavily built, but most of it fat, from the size of his jowls. He was jacketless; the sleeves of his white shirt were too long, but were restrained by bands, the kind that my father used to wear, but I never have. His blue tie was twisted and his dark hair was tousled, as if he had run his fingers through it.
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